Down a grey pebbled path
stepping over the chiffon of a thousand seedlings
sunlight brighter than Vermeer ever bottled
crisp green grass swaying in a negligent breeze
crusted puddles broken with bootprints
splayed over wide, ghostly evidence
of some hurried pedestrian.
Stubbled cigarettes, stamped
plastic candy wrapper pinched between
two dandelions and a shoe pressed viola
where the raceway garners occasional traffic
building abandoned, posted on offering
contact a nearby agent for inquiries
sign nearly as bent as the inside frames of
old car lifts, rusting from disuse.
The double sided main street, no town in sight
like every King’s Highway that never saw a golden head
or Naval Base cartooned in a desert basin
bled businesses with tax liens and despair.